


Promises and Pie Crusts

by bending_sickle



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-04
Updated: 2014-08-04
Packaged: 2018-02-11 18:53:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2079303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bending_sickle/pseuds/bending_sickle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watching the boys grow up from the other side of the counter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Promises and Pie Crusts

**Author's Note:**

> Promises and pie crusts were meant to be broken. - Proverb

She first met the kids - all knobbly knees and freckles - at the Greasy Spoon, where she made a living as a waitress and part-time cook, whipping up pies and cakes in the evenings. The two boys were pressed together on one side of the booth, the younger almost hidden, hunched as he was between his brother and the wall, more of him under the table than shoved over it, and so quiet he faded into the background of Annette's memory.  
  
At that point in her life she was more interested in the father and had she been fifteen years younger, her "How can I help you?" smile would have been tinged with flirtation. He had the same rumpled, exhausted look their more usual crowd of truck drivers had, staring into space over a caffeine hit before the next few hundred miles. Despite this, he was quite attractive, in the rugged sort of way. He had a very _solid_ presence, giving the sense that he was a man not only with a clear goal but a well-thought-out To Do list as well.  
  
The eldest son had just shovelled his way through a plateful of eggs and sausage and was swirling red patterns with his leftover ketchup with his finger before his brother had even finished his toast or his father his coffee. Annette asked the man if he wanted a refill anyway, expecting the younger boy to keep the family there for a while yet. He nodded and, with a glance at his ketchup-swirling son, pointed at an item on the menu.

> _”Hey, Dean, cut that out. Sam, finish your toast.”_
> 
> _“Don’t wanna.”_
> 
> _“Eat up, kid. I don’t want you frisking through Bobby’s kitchen the second we get there.”_
> 
> _“Why we gotta go to Bobby’s?”_
> 
> _“You know why. I’ve got to work. Now, promise you’ll be good. And eat your toast.”_

Annette came back with a freshly-brewed cup, a slice of cherry pie, and two forks, just in case. The eldest wolfed it down like he couldn't breathe without it, pausing only long enough to let his brother sneak a forkful.  
  
The father left a decent tip, the boys left sticky handprints, and Annette wondered about them the whole rest of the day.

***

They dropped in a few times after that, over the years. The father looked more and more tired each time, the younger son, Sam, sprang up like a bean and buried his nose in books, and the pie-loving Dean worked his way through the whole desserts section.  
  
She wondered about them. They weren't local, that much she knew, but the father's business kept them on the road enough for them to swing by every so often. Maybe, she guessed, they had family here.

> _”Here’s a twenty – order a pizza or something. Don’t open the door unless you hear the right knocks, even if it’s me. Keep the shotgun near you but for God’s sake, don’t let Sammy near it again.”_
> 
> _“I won’t, Dad.”_
> 
> _“You take care of your brother, now, Dean.”_
> 
> _“I will. I promise.”_

She worried about them, too. About the boys being brought up on the road instead of at school, about the wedding ring and the absence of a wife and mother, even in conversation, about the faded Wal-Mart three-for-five shirts and the torn jeans. About the sleepless look in the father's eyes.

***

One year, the pie-loving boy showed up alone. She still thought of Dean as a boy, although by now she'd seen him - in brief glimpses - grow into a handsome young man. He swaggered and had developed a near-perfect flirtatious smile that made all the younger waitresses blush. Annette almost had to fight them off for the order, even though he invariably sat in her section.  
  
As he tossed his jacket on the bench and slid in behind the table, Annette was ready with their menu, open to the desserts section. He nodded acceptance instead of teasing her over the day's pie and reached for his coffee mug like he expected it to weigh a ton, all controlled, slow movements. Annette glanced at the door - she'd never seen him alone - and he caught her look.  
  
He took the mug to his lips and spoke around it. They weren't coming. He said it softly, like a confession, and Annette knew there was more to it than that.

> _”You’re going to just walk out on your family, is that it?”_
> 
> _“I’m not a hunter, Dean. I’m not going to_ be _a hunter.”_
> 
> _“So you’re just going to run away, run off to college and white picket fences?”_
> 
> _“I want a chance at something -_ anything _\- that’s not this.”_
> 
> _“So you’re running away.”_
> 
> _“I’m going to_ college _. He’s the one who said-”_
> 
> _“If you leave, it’s on you. And if you don’t come back, well, that’s on you, too.”_
> 
> _“Come with me.”_
> 
> _“I’m a hunter, Sam. You, I don’t know what you are.”_
> 
> _“I’m your brother.”_
> 
> _“Prove it. Promise you’ll stay.”_

Annette filled his order and didn't pry, although she turned it over in her mind all through her shift. He must've been in his early twenties now, never gone to college from what she could gather, but his brother must be hitting the right age for it, and from the way he devoured books over his whole wheat, Annette wouldn't be surprised if that's where he was.  
  
When she brought Dean his slice, he didn't lunge right into it the second the plate hit the table. When she refreshed his coffee a third time, he was dismembering the pie with a distracted look.

***

The second time Annette saw Dean alone, he was thinner and his hands had taken on his father's worn and calloused look, but he had a sparkle in his eye and called her sweetheart. The swagger was back, but now it seemed natural, born of confidence rather than adolescent arrogance. He had two slices this time to wash down a full meal and near sang a hymn for the blueberry filling.

> _“Hey, Dad, it’s me again. Cleared up a banshee thing in Ainsworth – turned out it was a couple of the bastards - and I found some leads on a haunting in Duluth, so I’ll be heading north that way. I’ll call you when that’s done - I promise this time. Just, uh, tell me you got this, yeah?”_

***

The next time Dean walked in, it was with his brother, and Annette just about had a heart attack. She made the boy stand up so she could take a good look at him - all six feet plus of him. Annette knew he was just humouring her and wasn't entirely comfortable with a strange women her age cooing over him, but she couldn't help herself. He hadn't been by the Greasy Spoon in _years_ and that kind of diner, she didn't get to see a lot of people grow up, just grow old, and she'd taken a particular shine to the boys. Dean just laughed through it all before sitting down and ordering for them both. As Annette went off to place their order, she heard Dean remind his brother of the times they'd been there as children. Sam was a touch warmer to her after that.

> _”Yeah, I still don't get why you’re in love with this place.”_
> 
> _“Dude, how could you not remember the food?”_
> 
> _“’Cause that’s your thing? Whatever, I’ll just have a –”_
> 
> _“Pie. You’re getting pie.”_
> 
> _“If you promise to eat something green sometime this month...”_
> 
> _“Trust me, Sammy, it’s the best damn pie you’ll ever have.”_

Annette couldn't really say how long it was until next she saw them.

There was no one else at the diner - she must have been locking up or baking, but found she wasn't quite sure. Everything was a bit muddled – maybe she was just tired.  
  
Dean did not call her sweetheart, he did not ask for pie. He didn't even sit down in her section, just strode right into the center of the diner like he owned it. When he saw her, his face fell like he had been hoping for someone else.  
  
She looked down at the counter, convinced she had just taken out pie. It was the pie of the day, too, but suddenly she didn't know _which_ pie that was. The pie wasn't there, though. She could almost feel the heat of it straight through her bones but no dice: no pie.  
  
She tried to find a menu instead but couldn't find one. They were usually in a pack by the bar but not tonight.  
  
A cup of coffee, at least. The boy deserved coffee. He was covered in dirt and his face was pale as a ghost under it all.

> _”You just keep shoveling.”_
> 
> _“Why do I get stuck with the shoveling?”_
> 
> _“’Cause you’re the baby.”_
> 
> _“Yeah? You’re the shrimp.”_
> 
> _“Just cover that up and meet me back at the motel. If this is a bust, we’ll check out the house.”_
> 
> _“Next time, you shovel,_ I _get pie.”_
> 
> _“Yeah, sure, promise.”_

They were in the kitchen and Annette couldn't be sure if he had followed her in, or if it had been the other way around. But now he was in the kitchen and she didn't want him there, didn't want him opening her cupboards and drawers like he was looking for something, his hands getting dirt on everything and him not caring that she would have to clean it all up before she could get back to baking. She _so_ wanted to get back to baking. Surely he could wait until she was done?  
  
He took something out from behind the spice rack under the sink and turned it over.  
  
It was her recipe book.  
  
He looked up her and Annette thought he might cry on the spot, his face was so crumpled. She was wringing her hands, spreading flour everywhere like snow or ash, staring at her book in his hands. He flipped through the recipes - quickly, but with a smile every time his eye caught a particular favourite - and said she made the best damn pies he'd ever had.  
  
Even as Annette was smiling and glowing with pride like she'd been waiting her whole life to hear someone say so, he threw the tattered book into the sink and lit a match. Annette felt something inside her break - not snap, but crumble, like a pie crust under a fork - and then curl up just like the pages as they licked the flames.  
  
Then there was fire and salt and nothing at all.

> _”Alright, son, I’ll let you go on your own hunt. You just got to promise me one thing.”_
> 
> _“Yeah, Dad, I’ll be careful. Now come on, that ghost won’t salt itself-”_
> 
> _“It’s not about the hunt. Promise me: you won’t make it all about the hunt.”_
> 
> _“What do you mean? Of_ course _it’s about-”_
> 
> _“Saving people, Dean. It’s about saving people. And when you can’t do that, it’s about stopping whatever it is that got them. Promise me you won’t forget what comes first.”_


End file.
